


A Bud Ripped from the Flower Spine

by winter_rogue



Series: Rapture 'verse [2]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: F/M, Genderfuck, M/M, always-a-girl!Eames, girl!Eames
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-10
Updated: 2012-08-10
Packaged: 2017-11-11 21:06:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/482892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winter_rogue/pseuds/winter_rogue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is my bag where I may hide my secrets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Bud Ripped from the Flower Spine

**Author's Note:**

> See end for notes/warning.

Eames is 16 when she sleeps with the tall, quiet boy who has always lived across the street. He lets her draw him, in return. He gave her chlamydia.

#

Arthur always described Mal as lovely, he stole this word from Eames. 

Eames met Malorie Cobb when she was still Malorie Green, a chemistry student in Paris. They were both 23 years old and full of extravagant ideas about dream theory. She was introduced to Dom Cobb a year later and through him, a strung tight, serious young man named Arthur. Eames will admit to no one but herself, she was a little smitten with Arthur the second she caught a glimpse of his ass in a pair of well tailored trousers. To Arthur himself, she’ll say it was love at first sight and leave it at that; she suspects he knows the truth about his trousers.

There weren’t many women in dreamsharing then, there are more now but they’re still outnumbered by men ten to one. Eames enjoyed the kind of camaraderie she found with Mal. Not a natural team player, nevertheless, she stuck around a lot longer than she might have otherwise for the simple reason that Mal really was, lovely.

Eames split, took her cut from a job and hopped on a plain and disappeared the same week Mal informed her she was pregnant. They didn't speak again for over a year but Eames claims this was simply because Northern Africa has notoriously spotty cell reception and not because of any personal disputes they may or may not have had.

She didn’t exactly _dislike_ children per say, it’s just that she didn’t see the point of them. They didn’t drink, they didn’t go out at night looking for a good time and it was morally objectionable to hustle them, obviously.

Arthur came for her, eventually, in Tangiers with a lucrative job offer. Afterwards, he swore he’d never work with again. At the times Eames just laughed at him.

“Liar, I think you’ll find, after this, you won’t be able to stay away darling.”

Kissed him, and fled.

He avoided her for three months before breaking and calling her in for another job. They worked, and sniped and Eames flirted outrageously and pretended to be interested when Mal couldn’t resist gushing about her precious baby daughter.

When the Cobbs got pregnant again she put a traditional kanga in the mail; woven into the trailing edge the words _Huu mkoba wangu ni ﬁche siri zangu_. Mal sent her back a photograph, baby James wrapped up securely in brightly colored cloth, secure in Mal’s arms, with Philippa at her side. Eames propped the photo up against the mirror in her dressing table and stared at it for days before she took it down, stuck it between the pages of Orlando and forgot about it.

Quite by accident she ran into Arthur on a return trip to London.

“Are you following me?” he asked, suspiciously, his face twisted up in a perfect little frown. Eames found it absolutely charming.

“I could ask you the same thing, pet, after all-- you’re the one who always seems to be finding me.”

Her words actually seemed to catch him out, he flushed a little. For a moment he looked properly chided and tipped his head, acquiescence.

“That’s fair.”

“Tell me, what brings you to my fine city.”

He narrowed his eyes, he must have been working too much with Cobb lately, “I didn’t think you actually lived in London.”

“Semantics. Is it business?”

It wasn’t; he was actually on vacation. She invited him to dinner, and in a move that seemed to surprise even Arthur, he accepted. They ate disgustingly priced seafood and drank far too much white wine and Arthur smiled--one of the few she’d ever been able to coax out of him, and parted with a handshake and a brush of a kiss to his cheek. Her lipstick matched the rush of blood beneath his skin.

He called her, when Mal died. 2 am in Prague, Eames had three cracked ribs from a job that had gone bad and dark circles under her eyes from too little natural sleep. Arthur’s voice was soft in her ear:

“I’m so sorry, Dom’s in no condition to-- but I thought, well I know.” His voice wavered. “She would have wanted you to find out from someone close. Oh god Eames, it’s all gone wrong. I’m so sorry.”

And he didn’t say anything when she couldn’t stifle the ugly sob, but he stayed on the line until she’d cried herself into an exhausted, fitful sleep.

They didn’t meet again until she flew into Paris, smelling of airplane and Australian sun, still dressed in colorblock Kate Spade and carrying her Louboutin heels.

He looked severe despite the soft merino wool of his sweater. She had the almost overwhelming desire to keep walking until she’d run straight into him and only then stop, slump and let him hold her up for a little while. She resisted the urge, he didn’t look much like he’d appreciate it.

At the warehouse, she met Ariadne who was pretty and sweet and absolutely brilliant. A fresh and no doubt, soon to be, a quickly rising star. She made Eames feel inexplicably old.

When they finally landed at LA, after the longest planeride in her entire life, she followed Arthur to the taxi stand. They stood quietly, shoulder to shoulder, and Eames slipped her hand gently into his.

“I’ve been thinking about taking a vacation.”

Arthur hummed softly, an acknowledgement of her words.

“You should come with me. I hear you haven’t taken a vacation in longer than me.”

“You were on vacation when Dom went to find you in Mombasa, Eames.”

“Yes. You’d like it there.”

Arthur looked less than convinced.

“It’s warm and sunny. I’ll serve you lemonade in my designer underwear, just imagine it.”

“I hate the heat.” He followed her home anyways, though he ended up doing most of the serving.

A few years from now, Eames gets out of a taxi in New York City with a moving box. She juggles a beaded shoulder bag she’d bought in an Egyptian market (Arthur always grimaced hilariously when she went out with it) and the box and another worn tote over her other shoulder, but eventually manages to get her key in the lock and the door unopened. 

Arthur is reading at the kitchen sink again, he always says it’s the only room that gets good light. Eames dumps her box in the spare bedroom and goes back out to kiss him softly, diverting his attention. The book is forgotten in the kitchen sink, though Arthur forgets to complain about it after they’re done, sticky and sweaty and pleasantly relaxed.

In the evening, Eames unpacks her box. A picture falls out of one of her many books, it is still crisp and unlined, perfectly flat. The only thing to show its age are Mal’s clothes and the style of her hair. Philippa smiles up at the bundle of baby James. Mal looks happy and sane and rosy cheeked.

Eames stares at the photograph for a long time, silent and still. Her face, were Arthur to come in and see it, blank. She traces a finger across Mal’s face; she’s glad she never had to see her decline. 

Arthur is very quiet and surprisingly easy going once you get past all of his sharp edges. He hasn’t proposed, she doesn’t really expect him to but she wonders sometimes in the night when she can’t sleep if he wants a family. If he wants a real family, with her. He hasn’t said anything but Eames has always been an expert at reading people's’ desires before they realize them, themselves.

She hasn’t figured out, yet, how to tell him about the boy across the street who unwittingly gave her an STI two decades ago and scarred her uterus.

She tucks the photograph into the mirror of Arthur’s dressing stand, turns off the bedroom light and goes to find him in the living room. He’s fallen asleep on the sofa, a record playing quietly in the background. Eames moves his arms and tucks herself into his side and just breathes.

END

 

***Huu mkoba wangu ni ﬁche siri zangu  
“This is my bag where I may hide my secrets.”

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for infertility.


End file.
